


What comes after?

by vvvvv



Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, M/M, New York City, Past One-Sided Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Past unrequited love, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter is aged up, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), like idk 90 years of age difference, past one-sided Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-02-10 06:58:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18655291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vvvvv/pseuds/vvvvv
Summary: A few months after the events of Endgame, Bucky and Peter run into each other.





	1. Canarsie-Rockaway

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what this is going to be other than me working out my feelings about how that movie ended. I aged Peter up and made him a freshman in college. 
> 
> rating will update to reflect the contents of the story. 
> 
> (all the chapter titles are subway stations, because like... you know. subway metaphor. that steve and bucky end of the line thing.)
> 
> (oh! also it's third person limited pov alternating between bucky and peter. the centered italics stuff is flashbacks. hope that isn't confusing. I may mess with some formatting at some point if it's unclear.)

The subway train came to a halt. “Canarsie-Rockaway, end of the line.”

The handful of passengers in each car hurried out, finding their way to narrow staircases and bundling themselves back up before heading out into the cold, late January night. Bucky Barnes tightened his scarf, zipped his coat, and moved with the small herd. 

 

_“I wish you’d reconsider letting me or Sam back you up on returning those stones.”_

_“Nah Buck, I’ve got it. There’s actually a couple of other things I wanted to talk to you about before I go.”_

 

There were so many cities he’d seen this way: train rides in the middle of the night, walking briskly through the shadows, cloaked just as much in the anonymity of urban life as by the darkness. But this was the first time Bucky had been able to do it completely as himself. He took a picture on his phone of a beauty parlor that advertised “WAKANDA STYLE BRAIDS,” smiling a little while typing “Wakandan tech pops up in the most unlikely places” before sending the message. His phone buzzed a few minutes later.

** _tech??? I’m a fashion icon now, didn’t you hear?_ **

Bucky had heard. The photos of the Wakandan royal family celebrating their reunion with material reality had even reached his limited scope. He sent an angel emoji and the shrugging guy one and put his phone back in his pocket. Shuri had taught him so much, but sometimes it was little things like emoji that made Bucky feel like maybe he could tackle the 21st century.

Bucky was so grateful to Shuri and T’Challa for reminding him how to live day to day, not mission to mission. That’s what his time in Wakanda did more than anything. That was what had really made him feel like a man again. He had offered to go back, but T’Challa had suggested he stay in New York and try reconnecting with his old home.

**_this is moping_** , T’Challa had texted earlier, replying to Bucky’s confession that he’d just been riding the subway all night, every night, since getting into the city. Bucky walked from the subway station to the pier, grabbing a scenic photo of Jamaica Bay. “Seeing the sights. Not moping,” he typed. Bucky could feel the draw back underground, just to be in motion, rattling through tunnels with everybody else, but he resisted, opting to look out over the frozen water instead.

  _“I saw her, on the mission. I saw Peggy and I realized… Bucky, I could just-“_

_“You’re thinking about staying there.”_

_All Steve has to do is look at him and the cold knowledge floods his body, freezing him in place, stopping his objections._

_“You’ve already made up your mind.”_

_Steve looks down, ashamed, “it’s wrong of me, I know, but… God Buck, she was right there and I was there and would you hate me forever?”_

_Bucky forces a smile, puts his hand on Steve’s shoulder. “No pal, you deserve it. Go get your girl.”_

_The gratitude in Steve’s eyes makes it hurt all the more._

 

So maybe Bucky was moping.

* * *

 

Photography class had been a mistake. Or, no, _this_ photography class had been a mistake. Taking all that money from Mr. Stark’s estate and moving to Boston to go to Mr. Stark’s old college had felt weird and wrong, but a woman with flowier robes than Dr. Strange pacing in front of a class at Queens College insisting that they all needed to “find ourselves again after the existential trauma of the snap” felt worse sometimes. Peter’s photos on his mom and dad’s old Pentax were sharply focused, and developing them was just basic chemistry. His professor still shook her head at his prints. “I’m not going to fail you, but I wish you’d let us see more of your authentic self, Mr. Parker.”

That’s why Peter had trekked onto the ice of Jamaica Bay to photograph his own shadow. He got some good ones, too. He was making his way back when he saw a familiar figure on the pier. He hadn’t seen Bucky Barnes since the funeral, handsome and humbly elegant with the rest of the Avengers, but now he looked… ordinary. If Barnes hadn’t set off whatever weird part of Peter’s sensory system that recognized people he knew before his conscious brain did, Peter wasn’t even sure he would have spotted him. Barnes was already smiling softly in his direction though. He’d been a sniper, right? That made sense. Peter lifted his arm in a weak wave. Barnes waved back.

Cool. This wouldn’t be weird or anything.

“Hiya Sergeant Barnes, wasn’t expecting to see you here.” Peter hoped he sounded normal, or not scared, or not awkward. 

“It’s good to see you again, Peter. And you can call me Bucky.”

“Okay, Bucky then.” Peter didn’t know what to say. “How uh… how have you been?”

The way Bucky blinked at him and paused before responding (had his eyes always been so big and so blue and so sad?) made Peter regret asking. “You know,” Bucky shrugged. “I exist, so that’s good.”

“Yeah, big fan, big fan of existing,” Peter nodded awkwardly. “Me too.” He swallowed, trying to think of something to say, some excuse to give to bail without seeming rude. Technically, they were both still Avengers, right? “Are you still, uh…”

“Not so much lately,” Bucky smiled a little sadly and tucked a loose piece of hair behind his ear. “But if you didn’t know that then I guess you haven’t either, with them I mean.” He gestured vaguely north and west.

“No,” Peter shook his head. He held up his camera. “I started school, actually. Was just doing some homework.”

Something warm and comfortable settled into Bucky’s face. “That’s great to hear. Photography, cool, I’d thought you were a—“ And then that comfort vanished. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t keep you. It was nice seeing you though, Peter.” Bucky patted him very, very lightly on the arm and then walked away before Peter could respond.

Bucky was already two and a half long blocks away (how was he so fast? he looked like he was just walking at a normal pace) when Peter started running after him, not really sure why he was doing it. After a cursory glance around and check on his web fluid levels, Peter used some of the tall trees lining the street to catch up and landed right behind Bucky. The next thing he felt was the sidewalk on his back and a soft pressure on his throat. Bucky had somehow knocked him down, broken his fall, and put his knee on Peter’s neck. The look in his eyes was less sad, but still not blank bloodlust. Bucky looked curious.

“I’m so sorry,” Bucky said, quickly getting up and extending his hand to help Peter up. “Force of habit, you know?” Peter didn’t take it, kipping up instead and immediately going to check on the camera in his bag. He should have invested in one of those padded ones. Fuck. “Don’t worry,” Bucky held up the camera. “I saved it. Don’t want you getting in trouble for losing your homework.” 

“Thanks,” Peter said, more than a little thrown off by the sudden increased weirdness of the interaction, and also by his decision to extend it.

“I thought you wanted me to leave you alone. All your body language was telling me you were uncomfortable, and your tone of voice. So, I left. Sorry if that was wrong.” Bucky said all of this matter of factly, not like a judgment or a guilt trip, just like it was normal. “This is a nice camera,” he added, handing it back to Peter. “Do you want to get a cup of coffee?”

* * *

 

“Believe it or not, I actually used to be really, really good with people,” Bucky admitted to Peter as they sat down, feeling more than a little bit sheepish.

Peter shrugged, setting his camera on the table and sitting down across from him. “You’ve gotten better since the first time we met.” He tried to say it deadpan, but a little smirk crept onto his face.

“Thanks,” Bucky said. He meant it sincerely too, and took a sip of his drink.

They sat in silence for a moment or two, drinking their coffees. Peter warmed his hands (red and chapped from the cold) on his mug. Bucky kept his gloves on, but enjoyed the feeling of steam on his face.

Peter was the one to break the silence. “How’s Captain Rogers?” And then immediately flinched when Bucky looked into his eyes.  It was a short pause, but clearly long enough to be obvious. 

“I think Steve is fine,” Bucky nodded, trying to keep a calm, positive, supportive tone. Trying to soften his gaze. T’Challa had worked with him on eye contact, but Shuri was the one to tell him he had to tone down his ambient intensity. Bucky darted his eyes back to his mug, looking at the remnants of foam art that remained there. “Sam tells me he still goes to the park a lot, but now he’s feeding pigeons.” When Bucky looked back up, Peter seemed taken aback.

“I’m sorry, I figured… I thought you two were like… you know… I- I just figured he’d be with you.”

Bucky couldn’t keep the bitterness from creeping into his voice, and hearing it there made him feel sick with guilt. “I had thought that too.” He tried to smile, but could only feel his mouth making the shape of a grim line.

“Wow,” Peter said, unguarded for the first time in their interaction. “That- that sucks.”

Something about the way he said it made Bucky laugh, and loosened the tightness in his chest. “Yeah, I guess it does suck.”

Peter quirked his mouth and furrowed his eyebrows, looking down at his cup. “So you’re alone like me,” he said, very, very softly.

“Well,” Bucky started saying automatically. “I have friends, you know, back in Wakanda. Sam and I have plans to…” The way Peter looked at him made him trail off.

“You’re alone like me,” Peter said again, this time more firmly.

Bucky remembered the battlefield, everyone huddled around Tony Stark’s dying form, and the specific look of desperation in Peter's eyes finally clicked into place. “Yeah,” Bucky nodded, “I guess I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cool. so this one is going to be sad. is this something anyone wants other than me? I have no idea. let me know. I'm so sad for these boys.


	2. Eastern Parkway Brooklyn Museum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much to those of you who've commented, kudosed, looked at this at all, whatever!! I am so nourished I had to knock out this sad tiny chapter before my week started. <3

The weirdest thing about becoming kind of friends with Bucky Barnes was that he was like, really weirdly good at texting. He actually came off more normal over text than in person, the opposite of every other old person Peter knew.

They’d exchanged numbers when they said goodbye that bizarre night by the pier, with weak promises to keep in touch and see each other around. “Text me any time,” Bucky had said, super casual. Peter wasn’t expecting much, but it was nice to have someone in his phone who got it, even if they couldn’t actually talk about it.

So Peter had been extremely surprised that it only took an hour for Bucky to text:

** _Oh yeah, you’re really bad at sneaking up on people. Let me know if you want to work on that._ **

** _i wasn’t trying to sneak up on you but sorry my skills aren’t good enough for your 80 year old super assassin sensibilities_ **

** _It wouldn’t hurt you to be respectful, Peter._ **

Before Peter could apologize for misinterpreting the tone, Bucky had replied again.

** _I’m a 107 year old super assassin._ **

Texting Bucky was very that. He didn’t get a lot of things Peter said, sure, but he always had a sense of humor about it. Bucky seemed to be able to laugh at just about every aspect of himself, from his age to his mental health to his limb situation. Over text, at least. They texted for almost two weeks before they made any plans to meet up again, and it was only when Peter asked,

** _okay, what do I have to do to become a stealth master?_ **

Bucky was right, Peter did not have his stealth game down, and who would be better to help him than a 107 year old super assassin? 

The answer to that turned out to be “pretty much anyone sane and normal.” Peter spent the next three days learning that Bucky’s idea of stealth training mostly involved riding subway trains at different times of day and making Peter see how close he could walk to people on the street before being noticed. It was stupid, and what’s more, it was boring, and what’s more, it was stupid, again.

They went walking in the Brooklyn Botanical Garden to combine Peter’s photography homework with practicing stealthy walking. Bucky kept shaking his head at Peter. “You look like a tiptoeing cartoon from when I was a kid. Just walk normal.”

But when Peter walked normal, Bucky still didn’t like it. “No, not _your_ normal walk. Normal men don’t walk like you.”

“Are you policing my masculinity, Barnes?”

“No,” Bucky laughed. “Your walk is perfectly masculine, it’s just also a disaster.”

A _disaster_? “That seems harsh, dude. Sarge. Sergeant.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, as he always did when Peter made reference to his military title. “You move like a clumsy kid even though you have more innate agility than I do. It’s silly. I’ve seen you be graceful, so just be graceful.” Bucky made it sound obvious and easy.

“I don’t want to lose who I was before I got these abilities. I was a clumsy kid. I was never good at sports or acrobatics or even walking around, I…” Peter thought of how he’d said it before. It felt so long ago. That was the first time he met Tony Stark, and… He shook the thought out of his brain, tucked it away somewhere else for later. “I’m still me. I want to still be me.”

* * *

 

The way Peter said it hit Bucky someplace raw and tender and bloody. His concern, his sincerity, his naïveté, even the way he frowned— it was so painfully, miserably Steve. 

No. No, Peter was his own person. That was the whole point of what he was saying. “If being clumsy is essential to you being Peter Parker, then maybe we should stop with the stealth lessons.”

Peter gave him a look of pure sullen teenage annoyance.

Bucky shrugged. “Or you can just have your regular nightmare walk when you’re living your regular life and a new graceful, quiet one when you’re being Spider-Man.”

“So just compartmentalize, is what you’re saying?” Peter seemed okay with that. “Alright, Bucky Barnes, teach me how to walk.”

Bucky wanted to tell him that he won’t be able to be the old Peter Parker forever, that he’ll need to grow up, that trying to keep what you do from seeping into who you are is impossible. But now probably wasn’t the time for that. And coming from Bucky… that might be too scary for Peter to hear. So Bucky walked, and Peter followed. 

And Peter’s footsteps got softer, the rustle of his clothes less distracting. Bucky wasn’t sure if it was his pep talk (if he could even call it that) or just the fact that Peter was less worried about running into someone he knew in the mostly abandoned park, but Peter was doing a solidly impressive job of mimicking Bucky’s movements. After a couple diversions down different paths, between barren trees and shrubs, he even stopped listening to make sure the kid was behind him. He knew he was. It was a nice way to spend the day, honestly, moving silently through the frost, contented and warmed by Peter’s company. Then a flash of pink caught Bucky’s eye underfoot, and almost stopped him dead in his tracks.

 

_“Look at that, Buck,” he says, pointing to the little flower blooming through the snow. “Gimme just a second.”_

_“Okay, but hurry it up, will ya?”_

_He bites his lip, smiling, reaching into his coat for his pad of paper and piece of charcoal._

_Bucky wants to sound tough, wants to sound annoyed, wants to sound anything but what he is. “It’s gettin’ cold, come onnn.”_

_The dark grey lines curve and scratch their way into yellow paper. And Bucky can’t blame him, can’t blame anyone, for finding wonder in seeing something so delicate and beautiful flourishing where it seems like nothing should._

 

* * *

 

Bucky slowed down all of a sudden. Peter wasn’t sure what happened, but he followed, trying to keep his footsteps soft and light, and was something wrong? No. Bucky was just picking up a flower from the path. Peter kept his distance, not sure if this was part of the exercise or… But the way the late afternoon sun was hitting… He was there to do homework, too, after all. Peter wondered how quiet he could be, pulling his camera out of his bag. Bucky held up the tiny bloom to his face and the shot almost felt like it framed itself. Peter focused and let the shutter click. He advanced the film and clicked again, catching Bucky turning, reacting to the sound. Advance, focus, click. Advance, focus, click.

And then whatever had been happening was over. The tension cleared and Bucky let Peter approach. “I forgot all about your homework, sorry Peter.” Bucky kept his eyes on the ground, on either side of Peter, over Peter’s head. He seemed deflated, back the way he was that first night.

“It’s okay, but uh, I should probably get a few more before I lose the light.” Peter nodded in the direction of the sun.

“Sure, sure,” Bucky nodded, swallowing, then finally looked Peter in the eyes. He was asking Peter something, but neither of them could have said what it was.

“It’s getting cold,” Peter said, hoping. “We can check out the greenhouse, if you want?”

Bucky looked relieved, and Peter felt relieved, even if he couldn’t explain why. “Great,” Bucky said. “Great.” He put his hands in his pockets and they walked, leisurely, side by side, in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hellebores bloom in parts of brooklyn botanic garden even in the winter. they're pretty. look them up.


	3. Knickerbocker Ave

Peter slid his print of the first shot into the developer and watched Bucky slowly bloom into view. He’d been looking at these Buckys for hours, the four shots he’d taken in quick succession, and the first was probably the best photo, even though Peter liked all four for different reasons. He had seen Bucky make so many subtle faces, have so many tiny different variations in energy and mood, but nothing was rarer than seeing a Bucky unaware of being seen. And here he’d captured him, lips parted, loose strands of hair glowing in the winter sun, surrounded by a barren frozen landscape except for the tiny flower in his hand. What was he thinking about? Where was he? How had this one small thing disarmed him when nothing else could? Peter dropped it into the next tray. 

What did Bucky do when he wasn’t with Peter? He sent photos from around town, observations and little jokes. He went to the library sometimes. He never seemed to sleep and always seemed available to hang out. _Who are you?_ Peter asked silently to the man in the photo, to his friend. After fixing and rinsing, he examined the print more closely. Was it perfect? It felt perfect.

Peter didn’t want to stop looking at it, not on the train home, not in his bedroom after dinner. He didn’t show it to May and he didn’t think to question that. He laid down on his bed and looked at it, tracing the lines and curves of the image with his fingertip, taking in the way the light hit, studying Bucky’s expression. It was, purely from an aesthetic perspective of course, the most beautiful thing Peter had ever created. The decision not to turn it in for his assignment needed no real consideration. He’d print something else instead.

* * *

“He’s been asking about you,” Sam said, and it could have been judgmental but it wasn’t. Sam had that kind of patience and understanding. It’s what made him Sam. Bucky felt guilty anyways, sinking lower into the shitty armchair that came with his shitty apartment.

“Oh yeah?” Bucky tried to sound casual.

Who needed holo calling when Sam’s sympathetic smile was so audible in his voice? “Just little questions. He’s not upset that you aren’t here.”

Of course he wasn’t. “What do you tell him?”

“The truth, more or less. That you’re hanging out in Brooklyn and reintegrating with the world. The regular world, I mean.”

Bucky huffed. “Is that what I’m doing?”

“Isn’t it?”

“I guess.” Bucky felt deflated. “I meant it though, before. I do want to work with you, do missions, stuff like that. I’m just…”

“You’re not ready yet. That’s fine, just take care of yourself, okay? Don’t get lonely. You’re always welcome down here in DC.”

Bucky washed his face, trying not to think about the phone call. He hadn’t asked what Steve was doing. He’d stopped asking months ago. He didn’t want to know. If something important happened, Sam would tell him. Anything else, Bucky didn’t need.

He settled into bed to start on his latest stack of library books. His phone buzzed. Peter.

**_finishing up patrol near you did you get dinner yet_ **

Bucky couldn’t explain what was so exhilarating about befriending (was this friendship? It seemed friendship-esque) Peter Parker, but there was no denying the tiny smile on his face as he typed in his reply that no, he hadn’t had dinner yet.

_Don’t get too lonely_ , huh? Bucky thought to himself walking to the corner grocery. He felt comfortable with Peter in a way he hadn’t felt around anyone new since he’d left Wakanda. He wasn’t sure if it was the city or Peter’s whole smartass-with-a-heart-of-gold thing or the timing or their shared trauma, but it felt good and right and normal. He felt good and right and normal. He felt like Bucky.

He bought a handful of plums and a couple of seltzers. Not exactly a well-balanced dinner, but… Bucky liked plums and seltzer. He liked his corner grocery. He even liked his little basement room enough that the astronomical week to week rent didn’t feel too absurd. _There’s not a lot of shitholes left in this part of town_ , Peter had said, genuinely impressed by the black mold and dumpster furniture.

When Bucky opened the door, he was greeted by the sight of Peter in his boxers, flushed and a little out of breath after Spider-Man-ing through the city all night.

“Sorry! Sorry, I figured it’d be easier to change in here than find an alley nearby and balance all the spaghetti while changing while looking out for bad guys or perverts or onlookers or whatever,” Peter squeaked, clearly more than a little embarrassed, but also pointing to Bucky’s bed, which was covered in plastic food containers.

Bucky flicked on a lamp and put his grocery bag on the little all-purpose table he had. “‘Balance all the spaghetti’? Is that ‘all the spaghetti’? Why is it in my bed?” Peter was crouched on the floor, rummaging through his backpack. It wasn’t a pretty position, but Bucky couldn’t help but admire Peter’s compact frame. “Why don’t you take your clothes out of your bag before you take the suit off? Wait, why couldn’t you have put the spaghetti in your backpack?”

“I’m an eccentric genius, I guess?” Peter looked up at Bucky from the floor with a smirk, a little sweaty ringlet falling over his face. Bucky crossed his arms and suppressed a smile as he watched Peter get dressed, hoping he could still pull off looming intimidatingly with someone who’d stopped being scared of him.

“Do you have any beers?” Peter asked hopefully, gathering the mismatched tupperware from Bucky’s bed. So no, Bucky could not still pull off looming intimidatingly with Peter, who made a face at being handed a seltzer. “How come you’re from the 1940s or whatever but you’re still obsessed with flavored fizzy water like every other 28 year old in America?”

“I guess I’m a millennial at heart,” Bucky shrugged, sitting down and grabbing one of the spaghettis from Peter’s arms.

“Well thanks a lot for killing the diamond industry,” Peter joked, joining him.

Bucky shook his head. “I can’t believe you would joke to me of all people about killing. Tsk tsk Peter.” He couldn’t keep his delight from messing up the deadpan of his mock outrage, but Peter choked on his pasta all the same.

 

_“You’re funny.” Shuri says, looking up from her tablet, surprised._

_“I guess I used to be.”_

_“No,” she insists, “you’re funny.”_

_“I thought I was creepy and sad.”_

_“You are.” She’s already distracted again, nodding slightly while she scribbles a note. “And I am done with you for today.”_

_He hops down from the examination table and heads for the door._

_“Hey— creepy and sad and funny is better than just creepy and sad.”_

_It's small, but it's something, and he feels just the littlest bit more whole._

 

“How do you peg me as 28?” Bucky backtracked after they'd finished scraping the sides of the containers for the last remaining bits of sauce.

Peter shrugged. “I guess, well, okay, you’re 107 right? But you spent most of that time frozen and didn’t really get a chance to age, so you were still pretty much 25 when Hydra got busted up, and then you got put under again for like a year in Wakanda, then you blinked out of existence for five years, so yeah I figured you’re like 28 or 29.”

Bucky had never really thought about it like that. “Huh, maybe I’ll start doing better on Tinder with that.”

“You’re on Tinder!?” Bucky raised a silent eyebrow at Peter, who groaned. “Please forget that I fell for that one. I shared my 'thank you Spider-Man' spaghetti with you. You owe it to me.”

Bucky nodded, and Peter seemed to be satisfied with that.  He wanted to tell Peter that he was free to hang out as long as he wanted, but at the same time didn’t want to make him feel pressured. As luck would have it, he didn’t have to. Peter spread out on the floor with his homework, then his phone, then fiddling with his suit. Bucky read. 

It was 3:30 in the morning when Peter finally left, putting the empty tupperware in his backpack at Bucky’s insistence. The curious warmth that settled into Bucky’s chest when Peter, halfway out the door, turned and smiled, mouthing a silent “goodbye,” stuck with him until he’d fallen asleep.

* * *

Peter had only ever had major crushes on the kinds of people you couldn’t help but stop and notice: the brightest of stars, the centers of attention. When he fell for someone, it was big and shiny and dazzling and devastating and all at once. That was what he’d always known and always done, so he didn’t expect it to ever happen any other way. Why would Peter think anything of how calm and content he felt sitting quietly together in Bucky’s shithole of a studio, or how the first person he thought of to share free surprise spaghetti with was this guy he’d befriended only a month before? 

Peter knew what a crush was, and a crush was called a crush for a reason. It _hurt_. Crushes made him more awkward, more nervous, overexcited. They made him second guess everything he said and did. A crush was a person who could send him into ecstasy with a smile or a wink, and leave him miserable and hopeless over the most minor slight. Bucky made him feel more solid, and more himself, not less. So Peter didn’t question the smile he wore on his face his whole way home, or that the first thing he did when he got there was look at that photo again. 

When Peter finally turned out the light, he dreamed of white snow and black leather, sad blue eyes and cautious smiles, the tantalizing scratch of stubble against sensitive fingertips.


	4. 5th Ave Station

Peter had never been a big fan of wearing a suit, but the last year had really made him hate it. Suits were for funerals, will readings, and painful, awkward dinners May wouldn’t let him say no to. He only had the one, not even a suit, really, just one of Uncle Ben’s old sportcoats and a pair of slacks May had picked up at a yard sale. Peter hated it all the same. 

But Bucky was Peter’s friend, and his training was really paying off during patrols. Peter’s clumsy entrances were a thing of the past. What’s more, he felt… more comfortable in his skin, somehow. And Bucky had asked him to. Bucky never asked him to do things for him. So Peter mounted the stairs out of the subway two at a time and found himself staring at the wide, green expanse of Central Park. He didn’t like coming to Manhattan either, but at least it wasn’t Midtown. Bucky had asked him to meet for dinner with his friend at the Plaza Hotel at 8, so Peter had gone, not asking for further details.

Part of it was just that Peter was curious. He had no idea Bucky had any other friends. The only one Peter knew about was the Falcon, or rather, Captain America. But he was pulling double duty helping with some rebuilding efforts and putting together counseling programs for the post-snap trauma. It was all over the news. Peter had wondered, initially, why Rogers hadn’t passed the mantle down to Bucky, but it was immediately clear that Captain America would have to smile for cameras, be charming in interviews, symbolize something. Bucky could barely smile for Peter’s camera. His skill was not being seen, after all. 

It was 7:55, and Peter wasn’t sure if he should go inside. Bucky would find him. Bucky _always_ found him. It was just five minutes. Peter could wait outside for five minutes. (He _really_ didn’t want to wait outside for five minutes.)

When Bucky walked up (only two and a half minutes later, thank god) he was very plainly not wearing a suit. The Plaza was fancy, though, right? But Bucky did look nice— hair pulled back as neatly as Peter had ever seen it, black leather jacket, black jeans, black boots. Everything about him looked clean and shiny. Polished. New. He’d even shaved. Maybe that was as dressed up as Bucky got for something like dinner. And he was smiling, not a big smile by normal standards but as wide as Peter had ever seen him. Something about the expression made him look younger.

“Hey Peter,” Bucky said, full of energy, clapping him on the back of the neck. “Look at you, all dressed up. Thanks for coming. This’ll be great, I promise.” He kept his gloved hand on Peter’s neck, steering them inside. The leather felt soft on his skin.

“That’s alright. I, uh, you asked for a favor, so, I came.”

Bucky smiled again, even wider. Peter would have sworn the smile was just as new as Bucky’s clothes if it didn’t feel so warm and sincere. Or maybe it was old, very, very old. Well worn and polished, only for special occasions. Peter focused on the weight of Bucky’s hand on him and tried not to look around at all the rich people and chandeliers. At least the design wasn’t modern or that fancy rustic look. This was a kind of fancy Peter had never experienced before, which helped. 

They walked past reception, past the bar, past sofas and rooms that looked like they had walls full of books and even more chandeliers. The carpets were plush and ornate, and there was just a lot of gold everywhere. Then they were getting into an elevator (also gold) and riding up and up and up, all the way to the penthouse. What kind of friend of Bucky’s would be staying in the Plaza penthouse? That seemed like it would be expensive. Maybe it was Nick Fury or something. Maybe it was… Peter’s stomach lurched. No, this wasn’t her style. And she was always respectful of Peter’s time, always direct, always open. And Bucky seemed so excited. Tricking Peter wouldn’t make him happy like that. It couldn’t be King T’Challa, who Peter would actually have loved to hang out with, because King T’Challa was on the news doing that rebuilding stuff with Captain America very much not in the penthouse of the Plaza Hotel.

“Bucky,” he gave up trying to guess. “Who are we seeing?”

Bucky just grinned at him, bigger than ever.

The gold doors opened and revealed two women from the… Dora Milage? The ones who protected King T’Challa, like Okoye. Neither of them were Okoye though. Bucky nodded at them and they nodded back. They brought them into a huge, open living space with panoramic views.

“Peter, I would like you to meet the brilliant scientist who saved me and the annoying pain in my ass who texts me all day long,” Bucky said, gesturing to the couch. A girl stood up, or, a woman, rather? She couldn’t be any older than Peter. She wasn’t wearing what looked like traditional Wakandan clothes but they weren’t regular streetclothes either. Peter didn’t know anything about fashion, so he didn’t know what to call it. Like muted, casual cyberpunk. All at the same time. She smiled and stood up.

“Um, hi, I’m Peter Parker, nice to meet you,” Peter said awkwardly, extending his hand.

Peter felt like he was being examined. It was kind of weird, but then she took Peter’s hand and shook it, giving Bucky a very obvious look that had to mean something before smiling at Peter again. “Hello Peter, James has told me a little bit about you and I am extremely curious to to know more.”  
James?

But she was moving on to hug Bucky, who chided her. “Come on, Shuri, when are you going to start calling me Bucky?”

Wait a second… “Shuri? Princess Shuri? _You’re_ Princess Shuri?”

Shuri laughed, beaming. “I am sorry Peter that James didn’t tell you. It is a security issue. Only a few people know that I am in New York.” She sat down on one of the couches, gesturing for them to join her. “And James, the answer is that I will call you Bucky exactly never, because it is a stupid nickname.”

“‘Bucky’ and ‘Shuri’ are practically the same name.” Bucky looked really fond, like this was an old teasing argument they’d had.

“How do you put up with this man,” Shuri asked Peter, obviously kidding. “Listen. ‘Shuri’— wow, what a beautiful name.” She closed her eyes dramatically. “Now, ‘Bucky’— ugh, horrible.” She grimaced. “Not close at all.” 

They beamed at each other as they bickered and laughed. Was there something there? Were they a couple? Something about that idea bothered Peter, but he couldn’t and didn’t want to pin down what. Peter wondered why Bucky had ever left Wakanda in the first place,

“So you uh?” Peter didn’t know what to ask.

“Shuri fixed my brain, helped King T’Challa teach me how to be a person again, built me a new arm, and then made me pay for it by becoming my surrogate kid sister,” Bucky said to explain.

Okay. That made more sense. That would explain why they were so playful. Peter felt dumb and guilty for being jealous.

“Well, I had help with your brain, I cannot take credit for that entirely, I am sad to say. And what was I supposed to do? My big brother had just become king! I needed a new one to annoy.” She paused, smiling at Bucky, clearly also very fond of him.

“Thank you,” Peter managed to spit out. “For uh… bringing him back.” He tried smiling too in this room full of smiling, but felt awkward. He didn’t want to have to answer the “so how do you two know each other” question. Did Princess Shuri know he was Spider-Man? He knew she made weapons and stuff for Black Panther, but wasn’t sure what information she was privy to.

Shuri leaned forward in her seat and looked right into Peter’s eyes. “Peter, I am sorry if this is inappropriate, but can you show me your web shooters?”

Peter let out a relieved laugh. Well, that was one less thing to worry about. “Your highness, I would love to show you my web shooters.”

* * *

This is what Bucky got for introducing Shuri and Peter: his head stuck to a huge pillar on the balcony of the Plaza Hotel penthouse because two supergenius teenagers wanted to use him for target practice. He couldn’t see them, but he could hear them. Cackling.

“Y-y-you got him right in the FACE!! You’re a natural,” Peter was laughing so hard he sounded out of breath.

“James, hold still I have to send a picture to my brother, he will love this.”

Bucky heard the sound of a phone camera shutter.

“Also to everyone I have ever met, maybe,” she added.

“I can take one of you with him, if you want?” Peter offered, still breathless with amusement.

“Or better yet…”

“Selfie!” Peter and Shuri shouted simultaneously. Bucky groaned. He wasn’t exactly tired from running around, but he was hungry. This was supposed to be a dinner! Still, Bucky hadn’t had this much fun in… he couldn’t say how long. He had long felt that there is no better feeling than introducing your favorite people to each other and watching them become friends. It’s something he missed a lot, from his old life. He could feel himself trying to smile, in spite of the goop covering his face.

By the time Peter had freed Bucky and Bucky had washed the last of the web gunk off of his head, Peter was curled on the couch eating cold sesame noodles from the container, listening intently to some story Shuri was in the middle of telling.

“He had _assured_ us that he had figured out how to tie his clothes on, and these were _traditional_ traditional clothes, he had no mirror and one arm and was so sure he could wrap them himself—“

Oh no not this one. “Hey Shuri, Peter doesn’t need to hear this story.” Bucky grabbed the closest container and some chopsticks. “Ooh, orange chicken.”

“Sorry Bucky, I think I _do_ need to hear this story.” Peter grinned up at him. At least Peter had relaxed.

“I will stop James, I would never want to embarrass you.” Bullshit. She wasn’t even trying to suppress her satisfied little smirk. “Hand over the orange chicken and Peter will never know the rest.”

Bucky slumped down into an armchair and took a grumpy bite. At least defeat tasted good.

“Okay, so, he stepped out of the hut and he looked pretty good! We were very impressed. But he took a few steps, and then tripped over the hem—“ Shuri interrupted herself, laughing.

“Oh no, Bucky!” Peter was giggling too, looking at Bucky with wide eyes.

Bucky pouted, stuffing more chicken into his mouth.

Shuri’s voice was getting higher and higher pitched with delight at the memory. “And he kept walking, but when he had stepped on his hem it had pulled at something, and whatever he had done to tie it together just… Fell. Apart.” Shuri pointed her index finger into the air, trying to contain herself. “ _Just_ as he bowed his head—“

Peter was staring at her, shocked, completely enthralled with the story. “To your _mother_?”

“To. My. Mother.” Shuri made no secret that she was relishing each word. “The entire garment fell to the ground.”

“Noooo,” Peter wailed, laughing, literally _kicking his feet_ in delight. 

“So he is standing there bowing to my mother, who is—“

“I’ve seen her,” Peter assured Shuri.

Shuri nodded as if to say, _okay so you know she’s the most elegant, regal woman on earth_. “And he is trying to be smooth, barely covering himself with the fabric, and he goes—“ Shuri makes a goofy fake sad face, clearly preparing to impersonate Bucky.

“Wait a second, nuh-uh, I don’t make that face,” Bucky protested, waving his chopsticks at his tormentors.

It was Peter who turned to him immediately, tears of laughter in his eyes and insisted, “oh yes you do!” Et tu!?

Shuri continued in her deepest fake American accent, putting on a whole tragic air: “‘I am so sorry Queen Mother.’ But before he could come up with an excuse other than ‘I am a stubborn overconfident idiot’—“

“The goats!!” Peter exclaimed.

“The goats,” Shuri nodded smugly.

“They didn’t? Oh my god Bucky, they didn’t? Not in front of Queen Ramonda…”

“They did,” Bucky admitted, and, fine, okay, it was pretty funny. In retrospect. The embarrassed laugh would have bubbled out of Bucky’s mouth sooner or later. “That’s what goats do! And usually when they saw me holding something, it was something for them to eat. I took great care of those goats.”

Shuri seemed even happier now that Bucky had joined in. “Your _face_ , James! Oh Peter I wish you could have seen it. James do the face for him, please.”

Bucky put his food down and tried to put himself in the right frame of mind. “Peter, you have to understand, I was _so_ nervous. Here was this family who had saved my life and taken me in and were letting me take my time, hang out in a hut, feed goats, meditate, try to process everything, and I was doing _so well_. And they’re all royalty! Ijust wanted to make a good impression. So, I couldn’t let myself panic. I couldn’t let Queen Ramonda think I was so weak as to be thrown off by the goats I’d been taking such good care of ripping my clothes off. So my face was probably something like…” Bucky did his best approximation of a fake calm and collected face with big panicked eyes. 

He wasn’t sure if it was accurate, but his audience seemed to enjoy it. All three of them exploded in laughter, high on the happiness in the room and the silliness of the story. Bucky wiped a mirthful tear out of his eye and finished the orange chicken.

“So, what happened?” Peter asked after they had all calmed down and resumed eating.

Bucky shrugged. “I borrowed some clothes from my neighbors and went up to the city for dinner.”

“A woman’s clothes,” Shuri added inelegantly, her mouth half full of rice.

“Yes, and they were very comfortable and I had a lovely evening. Please pass the chow mein.”

* * *

The boys stayed late, later than Shuri had expected, trading silly stories, laughing loud and long, feeding off of each other’s delight. The stories they told were mostly about James, but Peter had some good ones about web fluid lab mishaps, and Shuri even brought out a couple of her old favorites about T’Challa, whom Peter had met a couple of times. She made sure to steer clear of the meetings themselves, keep things fun. She had never seen James so happy, but he was clearly still a sad man. And Peter, well. People were not Shuri’s expertise. It was very clear that Peter really cared about James. He also was a fan of her work. Other than that, though… Shuri was a genius of mathematics, design and engineering (not to mention computer programming, physics, chemistry, languages, fashion and strategy), but she could only really read people she knew well. 

Still, Peter had seemed so eager to hear about her lab in Golden City, her inventions, the way life in Wakanda worked. As they began to say their goodbyes, it seemed only natural to offer an invitation.

“You must come visit us, Peter. We can fly you both in and I can show you my lab!”

Peter’s eyes widened enormously. “I- Are you- Wow. That would be incredible.”

“James can visit his goats!” The callback worked, getting a big laugh from Peter. James looked so happy when Peter laughed. “My lab is like nothing you have ever seen, I promise you. We could even modify your suit. We could make you a new one.”

Peter’s smile dropped away and the light in his eyes disappeared.

“I’ll see,” Peter spoke softly. “I have a lot going on here, you know, with school and patrolling, and, uh— But thanks for the offer. It’s very, um, generous of you.

Had she overstepped? Shuri hugged both men goodbye as they left, and tried to ask James with her eyes what she had done wrong. He shook his head as though to say she should not be worrying. Maybe Peter had ghosts of his own. She hoped he would change his mind. 

* * *

It had been fine. It had been better than fine. It had been awesome. They were having fun. Shuri was one of if not the coolest person Peter had ever met. Bucky was the silliest and most normal Peter had ever seen him. The food was good. It felt wonderful to laugh with two friends again, like he was back in high school with MJ and Ned. But Peter had trembled the entire way home, a scream threatening to tear out of his chest.

He was gone but he was always there. In the news, in the Manhattan skyline, graffitied 10 feet tall on the sides of buildings, on t-shirts and collectible plates. He was even getting a stamp. Peter saw him again in Shuri’s easy generosity, her delight in inventing and perfecting, her charm. The sparkle in her eyes at the prospect of making something for Peter pierced him someplace tender and dark and empty and awful and ashamed.

 

  _“How is Peter doing?” Ms. Potts speaks in a hushed tone, even though he’s all the way in the garage. It’s still not hushed enough. “He seems…”_

_“He’s angry and he’s sad.” May is direct, matter-of-fact about it._

_He goes through another box of tech marked ‘FOR PETER’ in marker, trying to consolidate everything so it can fit in May’s car._

_“Doesn’t he seem different to you, though?”_

_“Sure, he seems different to me all the time. He’s growing up.”_

_The next box is memory cards and file folders. Everything is dated, going all the way back. Activity logs, debug logs, phonecalls, emails, text chains, software updates, takeout receipts._

_“You know what I mean.”_

_May pauses. “I do. Peter’s a good kid. He’s always been a good kid, the best kid. And he’s still a good kid. He got hurt, so he put walls up. That’s what kids do.”_

_One folder contains nothing more than a cocktail napkin, the darkened circle of a Scotch glass etched into its paper. The sketch on it is messy, but instantly recognizable as Mr. Stark’s first Spider-Man suit design._

_“I don’t think he likes me.”_

_Tears fall down his face, hot, humiliating and unwelcome._

_May sighs. “No. But it’s not personal.”_

_They leave without any boxes, just a file folder too slim to hold much of anything at all._

   

He’d given Peter his time, his energy, his attention, his care. He’d saved the universe, yeah, but he’d stopped in the middle to give Peter a hug. But Peter, not the good kid everyone thought he was, only ever wanted more and more and more. Peter had been given the impossible and still asked for the impossible-er. Peter asked for too much. He pushed.

 

_“I didn’t ask for this,” Peter says, trying to make sense of the paperwork he’s supposed to sign._

_“He wanted to take care of us.” Rhodey signs his own packet and returns it to Ms. Potts._

_“I don’t_ **_want_ ** _this.”_

_“What would you rather have, Peter? We’ll see what we can do.”_

_Peter is ready to say I WANT HIM BACK, but he looks up into her eyes and he can’t do it. So Peter just thinks it, signing his name by the post-it flag._

  

So Peter got everything he never wanted.

  

_“Isn’t prom tonight?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow._

_Peter sways on his feet, rented tuxedo shirt half unbuttoned, bowtie long gone. “‘Tsover, couldn’t go home to May, you know, like this, figured you’d understand. Figured I could come here.” He tries not to slur his words. It's hard though._

_“Make yourself at home.” He doesn’t look up from his work, but he’s smiling. Peter feels the smile everywhere, it warms him down to the bone._

_Suddenly too warm for jackets, Peter takes his off, tossing it onto the couch. “Whysit so warm in here?” He fusses with his shirt cuffs._

_“Climate change,” he says, finally looking up. “Need help?”_

_“I don’t understand cufflinks,” Peter admits, walking over to him, holding out his wrist._

_And then they’re so close. Peter watches dark eyelashes fan out over delicately lined skin._

_Peter could just tilt his head back and lean in and he hears himself whispering “Mr. Stark,” low in his throat, closing the distance, rewarded by heat and stubble against his skin before he’s pushed away._

_He plays it off cool, like Peter’s just being a sloppy drunk, but he looks mortified. He looks disgusted._

_Peter sees a ghost of that horror in his eyes every time he catches Peter looking at him. For months and months afterwards. It finally disappears on Titan, right before Peter disappears too._

   

And nothing that he did want.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was writing this fun fluffy chapter full of friendship and joy and then it just had to get really, really sad.


	5. Howard Beach- JFK

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> spring break bitch!!!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter is so late!! I was on a roll with weekly updates and then life happened and I couldn't find time to get this out!! and I left you all with so much angst last time, ugh. don't worry though! it's time for a vacation.
> 
> also sorry if this is a mess?? no one is editing these chapters except me late at night.

“What’s this?” Peter asked Bucky, picking up an unopened envelope. “Who sent you mail? It looks so fancy.”

Bucky scowled. “It’s nothing. Leave it alone.” He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to talk about it. He shouldn’t have brought it into his little safe haven basement. He shouldn’t have left it out where it could haunt him. Bucky’s stomach had gone sour the second he’d seen it, recognizing the handwriting immediately. 

The only reason he even checked his damn mail was to throw out all the junk he got so it wouldn’t overflow and make a mess that made his landlord yell at him. He should have pretended he didn’t notice it and just chucked it with the rest. 

Of course Steve had remembered what happened the first week of March, and of course Steve sent him something in the mail, finding the sweet spot between respecting Bucky’s boundaries and disregarding them entirely. Whatever Steve had written was probably thoughtful and heartfelt. Bucky didn’t want to know, but he didn’t _not_ want to know either. 

 

_“Happy birthday, Buck.” Steve helps him out of his medical sleep pod. He’s here. He’s come. Steve._

_It’s things like hugs that make Bucky miss his arm the most._

_But Steve is finally, finally back with him holding out a pink bakery box._

_The cake is frosted a rich brown, with pink and purple flowers piped on. The icing reads ‘Happy Birthday Bucky’ in an even, white script._

_Bucky is able to recall the memory without any struggle. “We’d press our faces to the glass case when your ma brought us with her to buy bread.”_

_“I always told you I’d buy you one someday.”_

_They eat on a balcony overlooking the city, the sun and Steve competing to see which can cast more comforting warmth over Bucky’s face. Bucky tells Steve some of the things he’s remembered. He even makes Steve laugh the way he used to, head back, eyes shut tight._

_They only get a few hours before Bucky’s eyelids start to get heavy again._

_“This was perfect,” Bucky says, hugging Steve as they say goodbye. “The best birthday present I could have asked for.”_

_Steve shakes his head, smiling so fond and warm it should hurt, but it doesn’t. “You’re really back, Buck. You’re really back.” And kisses Bucky on the forehead._

_Bucky’s heart leaps into his throat. He feels like he’s floating. He feels a spark of old hope, the oldest hope. A hope he’d long since given up on. He’s pulled back under with a soft smile on his face, warmed through in spite of the cold._

 

“It’s from Steve,” Bucky gave in, hoping Peter would understand. Bucky had never explained the full Steve situation to Peter, but he assumed Peter more or less got it. 

“Oh.” Peter put it back down looking sheepish. “Sorry.”

Bucky felt bad. Peter hadn’t known. “It’s my birthday on Saturday,” Bucky explained. “I just don’t want to deal with whatever that is.”

“Oh shiiiiiit, dude!” Peter jumped onto Bucky’s bed and slapped the book out of his hands. “What are we doing? How old are you gonna be? 108? Are you a karaoke guy? You don’t strike me as a karaoke guy but then again no one is a karaoke guy until they become a karaoke guy, you know?”

“I wasn’t going to…” Bucky trailed off. Maybe they should do something for his birthday. Bucky could forget about the envelope, get out of his own head. He’d been hoping for another one of the little recon missions he’d started running for Fury, but there was no way he could count on one of those definitely popping up. “Alright, what should we do?”

Peter grinned wide. “Get drunk and go to Coney Island?”  
Bucky shook his head. “No. Not Coney Island.” He said it more harshly than he meant to.

“Should we get out of New York? I’m about to be off for Spring Break.”

“Where should we go?” Bucky knew a lot about traveling the world, but basically nothing about going on vacation.

Peter already had his phone out, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth as he typed. “Best cheap vacation spots,” he narrated.

They didn’t necessarily need cheap. Bucky had some money. What would be good? Bucky took out his own phone to text T’Challa. He’d have a good idea, probably.

**_What’s a good place for non royalty to go on vacation this time of year?_ **

“What about Gainesville Florida,” Peter suggested, reading off of his phone.

“What would we do in Gainesville?” Bucky had only ever been to Miami a couple of times.

“Alligator wrestling?”

“Let’s keep looking.”

Bucky’s phone buzzed.

**_why are you texting my brother about secret vacations?_ **

**_oooo are you planning a birthday getaway!?_ **

He should have seen that coming. So much for all that stealth and tactics training.

**_Me and Peter want to get out of New York for a week but I’ve never been on vacation because I was too busy being a brainwashed super assassin for 70 years so I was asking the only sophisticated adult I know for a recommendation._ **

Peter’s phone buzzed and he laughed. “Shuri wants to know why she wasn’t invited. Wait— isn’t she supposed to be busy giving a keynote this week at that big women in STEM conference?”

Bucky groaned in fond annoyance. “Of course. When she’s home, she never texts me, but when she travels, she has downtime and gets bored.” Fond annoyance turned into regular fondness when Bucky remembered her frantic texts after she’d blown out her final hotel generator and had to stop bringing her work with her on trips. “I don’t think she ever learned how to be bored,” he thinks out loud. “Tell her that she’s not invited because if I wanted to be tortured by two little mad scientists, I’d go back to Hydra.”

Peter barked out a laugh, but his eyes were like saucers. Bucky loved getting that ‘I shouldn’t be laughing at this’ laugh out of Peter. Then Peter’s phone buzzed again and his eyes got even wider. “Shuri just— She just sent me plane tickets?”

“To where? I don’t want to end up on some nude resort or Siberia or something.” Shuri would never go as far as Siberia, but a nude resort? Maybe.

“She says I’m not supposed to tell you— oh and hotel reservations too… It’s good though. It’s not a nude resort. At least I don’t think it is? I’m pretty sure it’s not.” Peter looked genuinely happy, not like he was trying to hide something.

“When do we leave?” Bucky 

“In two days. Shit, I have to do a TON of laundry.”

 

* * *

 

 

Peter hadn’t thought to ask about getting Bucky’s arm through security mostly because he always forgot about Bucky’s arm. It’s not like the guy ever wore short sleeves. But it occurred to him when they got their boarding passes. Like… was it the same rules as for any prosthetic or did the whole cybernetic armor super-assassin thing make it different? 

But then the TSA agent who checked Bucky’s passport just waved them through all of security. They didn’t even scan them.

“Uh, what just happened?” Peter asked when they were on the other side.

Bucky snorted out a laugh. “Do you think Hydra was sending me through TSA with my sniper rifle all those years?”

“Well, that’s terrifying.” It was. Peter didn’t want to think about everything that implied.

“Don’t worry, Peter. I didn’t bring it this time.” Bucky had a lot of different smiles, but there was a little half smile where his eyes went cold and dark, and his nostrils flared just slightly that he always did when he was thinking about something really fucked up or sad. Peter hated that smile. Fortunately, it disappeared as soon as they made it to the gate.

The flight was long, but easy. Peter spent most of it tipsy on free champagne spamming his finsta with dumb selfies and watching other passengers watch movies. Bucky brought a stack of library books. 

Peter had been worried that flying first class and staying in a five star hotel would remind him too much of…well… the first time he’d flown to Europe. But it didn’t. Even the car service Shuri had hired for them felt different. The dark, narrow alleyways of the Barri Gòtic reminded Peter more of patrolling in New York than being guided through the grand boulevards of Berlin. The hotel itself was fancy, sure, but the architecture was a bizarre combination of cold glass and ancient looking bricks, like someone had just said “fuck it” and patched up some ruins with glass and steel, filled it with expensive furniture and called it a hotel. Peter had never seen anything like it.

“So what’s in Barcelona?” Peter asked after they’d dropped off their bags, remembering the soft smile on Bucky’s face when they’d gotten to the gate.

“Nothing,” Bucky shook his head, but he looked around all dreamy and wistful, an expression Peter knew well, even if it appeared rarely. “It’s just a nice city.”

 

* * *

 

 

_The payphone rings twice, then stops. Then rings again._

_The asset answers._

_Correct words are given. The assignment is called off. A car will come for him at 18:00._

_The asset replaces the phone and looks at his watch. 11:15._

_< <That’s a lot of time.>>_

_The thought comes unbidden, in English. The tone is familiar, kind, playful._

_It is a short walk to the water. There are boats on the horizon. Palm trees sway in the gentle ocean breeze. The sand is crowded with people. Families. Couples. Friends._

_Salt and city fill the asset’s nose. The sun warms his leather jacket._

_The sounds of laughter and splashing and honking horns, the heat and the salt smell and the way the water sparkles in the sunlight all mean something. The asset isn’t sure what._

_A man and woman walk by holding hands._

_I have done that, he thinks. I have held hands with the ocean in my ears and seagulls overhead._

_It is like a normal thought, if the asset had normal thoughts that are not mission critical, which he does not._

_So instead of thinking, the asset eats a sausage sandwich on a bench. (His handlers think that being the asset precludes him from feeling pleasure. They are wrong.) He washes it down with a sweet, cold drink, and licks his fingers clean of grease when he has finished._

_He looks at his watch again. He has six more hours. The strange thought had been right, the asset agrees. That_ **_is_ ** _a lot of time._

_The next time they wake him may be five years later, and his sunburn may be healed, pockets emptied of trinkets and small change, but the asset’s mouth still tastes faintly of cinnamon._

 

It hadn’t occurred to Bucky that Shuri would remember and send them to Barcelona. Barcelona had been the most pleasant of the Winter Soldier’s memories they’d unearthed, but still. He sent her a picture of the view from his suite, hoping it conveyed some of the full, warm sappiness he felt. They spent the night walking the neat grid of the city, Peter stopping every so often to take a photo. Bucky even posed for a few. 

“It’s weird,” Peter said, deftly swirling his wine glass in imitation of the other patrons at the tapas bar they’d found. (Because “we’re in Spain, we _have_ to get tapas.”) “You’d think just walking around a city would be boring, since all I ever do is run around my own city, but it’s completely different.”

“Right?” Bucky nodded, grabbing the last little steak something off their plate.

“I wish you’d let me bring my web shooters though, it’s like physically hurting me that I don’t get to swing off of any of these buildings.”

Bucky snorted at the image of Peter destroying a treasured piece of historic architecture. “I swear Parker, I should keep you on a leash.” He rolled his eyes and finished his glass of wine.

“I, uh, haha—“ Peter laughed nervously, face flushed a deep pink. It was probably a sign that they should stop drinking, but the sight of Peter blushing and embarrassed over such an innocent offhand comment woke something up in Bucky that he did his best to cautiously tuck away to look at later. 

They didn’t end up getting _drunk_ drunk, but Peter was tipsy at least, and Bucky felt… Bucky felt _good_. On the walk back to the hotel, Peter grabbed his hand and the touch was easier than touch had been for Bucky in a long time. Bucky experimented, taking Peter’s arm, slapping him on the shoulder, and it felt like another weight had been lifted. By the time they’d made it into the elevator, Peter looked just slightly sloppy, his face rosy and contented. Bucky took a photo with his phone, not to send to anyone, just to have.

“Oh noo,” Peter protested, looking at the picture. “I look like shit.”

“You look cute.” He looked even cuter when he whined. Bucky messed up Peter’s hair even more and took another. Peter made a face. “Yup, still cute.” Click. Each time Bucky called Peter cute, Peter blushed a little more, which was also cute, so Bucky kept doing it. “Cute.” Click. Out of the elevator. “Cute.” Click. Into the hallway. “Still cute, Peter!” Click. Click. Click. Into the suite. Peter’s face was bright red, contorted into an absurd attempt at not smiling. “Cute!” Click. Peter pulled a throw pillow off the sofa and used it to cover his face, but Bucky batted it out of his hand. “Insanely cute!” Click. Click. Peter reached for another pillow. Peter was fast, but Bucky was faster, more practiced, tackling him gently onto the thick rug. Bucky had dropped his phone but it didn’t really matter because straddling Peter, pinning his hands over his head, he could look all he wanted. 

Bucky was being playful. That’s what they were doing, after all. Friends tease and play around and roughhouse. But the words “so fucking cute, Peter” fell out of his mouth somewhere halfway between a groan and a threat. And the heat of Peter’s body under Bucky’s, the tension in Peter’s wrists, there was just… so much. The touching suddenly wasn’t easy anymore. It was good, it was _so_ good, but there was nothing easy about the way Bucky’s whole body felt hot and alive. 

Bucky always liked looking at Peter, always liked being around Peter. It wasn’t something he’d really paid much attention to before, but on the rug of a hotel room in this city where he’d never killed anyone, Bucky let the liking and the wanting breathe in his body til his skin was buzzing with it. As focused as hunger and urgent as fear. 

Peter looked up at him hot and determined, breathing a little heavy, still blushing like crazy. “Cute,” Bucky said again, pressing his weight down on Peter’s wrists, leaning down so close he could feel Peter’s breath on his face. Peter’s mouth looked so soft. Bucky wanted… Bucky wanted so bad it started to hurt. Peter probably still tasted like wine. Wine… Wine. Right. They’d been drinking. This was probably not okay. Bucky rolled off of Peter and stood up in one fluid motion, offering a hand to help Peter up.

Peter kipped up without assistance, staring a question into Bucky’s eyes but heading to his bedroom with a simple “uh, I guess I should get some rest.”

Bucky tamped down on all the heat and want as much as he could, smiling his best normal friend smile until the shuffling in the next room had gone quiet. He didn't touch himself often, but Bucky was still surprised how little time it took once he'd wrapped his hand around himself for him to come with a shudder imagining just how soft Peter’s lips would have felt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had stuff with Bucky touching people earlier in the story but, like most other normal people things, it was always something of an effort for him. I can't remember if I actually included that or not. 
> 
> ugh. writing! am I right?


End file.
